


Swamped

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: EiE, Empathy, Hurt/Comfort, Issues, M/M, empath!John, experiments in empathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to help John after a particularly gruesome crime scene swamps him in a maelstrom of negative feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swamped

**Author's Note:**

> A huge amount of thanks to PrettyArbitrary for all her amazing beta-ing and good suggestions.

Sherlock pulls John further into the alley, stumbling with the force of the _painterrorpain_ that floods through him. He pulls John into the shadowed recess of a doorway, tugs him close, closer, until they’re pressed together from knee to shoulder. John is panting against his collarbone, making tiny noises of pain that he doesn’t seem aware of; Sherlock can feel each humid exhalation through his shirt, a small link to reality. He clamps a hand tight around John’s nape, to hold him close, to strengthen their link, to try and let John know that he’s _here_.

This has never happened before. John has never had this strong a reaction to a crime scene. And Sherlock would have sworn they’ve seen worse.

“John?” Sherlock whispers, his voice urgent and harsh with it. John doesn’t seem to hear him, doesn’t acknowledge his words, at least. 

Those small sounds of pain are still escaping John’s throat. John goes all but limp against him. His hands are fisted in Sherlock’s shirt, pulling the fabric tight around his torso, yanking it out of his trousers. It’s uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable as what’s pounding into Sherlock’s head with each too-fast beat of John’s heart, sending spots dancing across his vision, feeling like horns blaring in his head, overwriting thought, blotting out everything but the overwhelming chaos in John’s head.

Sherlock wraps his other arm around John’s waist, holding him up, keeping him standing, keeping him anchored while stuck in the maelstrom of pain and confusion that swirls around them both. Sherlock keeps trying to shrink back into the shadows of the doorway even further, pulling John with him; he doesn’t want anyone to see John like this, so affected by the crime scene that he can’t even stand under his own volition. There’s no one about at the moment, but they aren’t very deep in the alley. Anyone could walk by, could see them in the shadows--would probably mistake them for an amorous couple if they did. Sherlock has to adjust his grip to keep John standing, ending up with his hand under John’s coat, under his jumper and his shirt, against the soft, sweaty skin of the small of his back. It helps bring them closer, it sharpens the connection between them, usually Sherlock can use that if he needs it, to get through to John, and vice versa. He’s trying to use it now, to draw John back into himself, to ground him again, and he’s not sure it’s working. 

He doesn’t want anyone to see _him_ like this, so wrapped up in John’s shared pain that he can’t think of anything other than fixing it, making it stop, making it go away. He can still hear the sounds of traffic out on the street, intruding on the quiet he needs in order to concentrate on getting through to John; he can still see the flashing lights of the panda cars that are still surrounding the scene whence they’d just come. He can’t concentrate through the haze of John’s terror still beating at him. It’s like John has absorbed too much of it and is stuck in a feedback loop, dragging Sherlock under with him in his attempts to break free, clinging like a drowning man, projecting wildly. 

John makes another sound low in his throat, a whimper, and Sherlock’s grip tightens, both on his neck and around his waist. He flattens his hand against John’s skin, long fingers splayed, pulling John as tight as possible against him, into the space between his legs looming over him as much as his few extra inches of height will allow, tucking his head down against John’s neck, pressing his lips against the sweaty skin there, establishing another point of contact, willing himself to get through to John, that he’ll be enough, that he’ll be able to keep him from losing himself entirely.

He doesn’t speak, there’s no need, no use to it right now. Each added place of skin-to-skin contact helps him draw John a little bit further back into his own body, back into the present, away from the emotional morass of that crime scene, away from the loop he’s caught in, a little bit at a time, and he wishes John would let go of his death grip on Sherlock’s shirt long enough to move his hands under it, against Sherlock’s skin; it would strengthen the connection further. 

They don’t affect him the way they do John, crime scenes. Usually, they don’t affect John this way either, they don’t get so far past his barriers as to bring him close to breaking down, close to losing himself entirely in the emotional residue of them. Sherlock doesn’t know why this one was different. It was awful, yes, a brutal crime, terrible, intriguing at a glance but ultimately simple. But something about it is doing its best to drown John and he doesn’t know what. His curiosity helps ground him.

“Too much,” John murmurs, finally starting to respond, finally inching his way back into the present, out of his head. Sherlock’s curiosity and concern seem to be getting through. Sherlock barely hears it, since it is said into his chest; John has his forehead pressed against the top of Sherlock’s sternum, just under his chin. Sherlock rather likes him there, like that. ( _Now is not the time, Holmes._ )

“Shh,” Sherlock soothes. “Just breathe, John.”

\--

Greg is well used to the way they act at crime scenes, both the way it used to be and the way they have been since the incident at the pool. There are marked differences, but he’s not sure if anyone else can see them. Sherlock flits about doing his all-seeing Holmes thing (Mycroft does it too, only his mannerisms are different, it drives Greg _insane_ ), and John does his steady doctor thing. Sherlock pays attention to John differently now than he used to, though. He gives more credence to John’s contributions, although Greg is pretty sure he’s not listening much to the things John says aloud so much as the emotional nuance that John picks up and shares with him; it’s pretty obvious that John can feel some of what happened at a crime scene. Once again, Greg is utterly grateful not to be an empath.

This time, though, it’d been different, more like it used to be, and Sherlock hadn’t noticed for far longer than Greg thought possible. He hadn’t noticed that he had left John behind, that John stood rigid just inside the crime scene tape--Greg keeps meaning to ask if it forms some sort of psychic barrier; he thinks it must--and had gone ghost pale except for the green tinge around his edges.

Not surprising, with this one: children, brutally murdered. Greg feels a little green about the gills himself. Two of the younger constables had to be excused and taken off to the cafe down the street for a cuppa. 

He watched John visibly try to pull it together, saw him cast one look of profound sadness at the small bodies on the ground, and watched him turn away, simply duck back under the tape and walk away without a word to anyone. His shoulders were hunched and he had a hand clasped over his mouth, as though he was holding something in, some noise or possibly even vomit, although Greg doesn’t doubt John had seen things this bad before.

That was when Sherlock finally noticed. Noticed, looked down at the bodies, and then over at Greg. He snapped his magnifier shut and went after John, completely ignoring the shocked exclamations and snide comments that followed after him. He caught up to John quickly and, once he thought they were out of sight, grabbed his partner’s wrist and started dragging him off. Greg couldn’t be sure, but it looked like John might’ve been hyperventilating.

Greg orders the bodies covered and pulls out his phone. The text comes only a moment later. _I’ve seen all I need, will let you know. -SH_

Greg sighs, but he gives the techs the go ahead to get started.

\--

It’s a long time before John’s breath starts to even out, before he realizes that he’s entirely swallowed up by his--he still hasn’t decided on a proper term for what he and Sherlock are, although pair-bonded has a nice ring to it--in a dank doorway down an equally dank alley only a block away from the scene of a brutal murder in a not very posh part of London. It’s a relief to be swamped by Sherlock instead of by the swirling emotions of that murder.

He slowly loosens his grip on Sherlock’s shirt, making a regretful, reluctant, slightly pained noise as he does so. His fingers creak as he lets go, clamped too tight for too long. He’s not ready to let go yet, doesn’t want to rejoin the world, though he’s glad enough to be free of the storm. He desperately does not want to go back there. He doesn’t want to leave this spot.

“Might’ve ruined your shirt,” John says, quiet, without lifting his head from where it rests against Sherlock’s chest.

He feels more than hears Sherlock’s responding chuckle. “I suspect we’re both rather a bit worse for wear right now.”

“Oh God.” John thinks of their surroundings, but otherwise he really doesn’t know where he is right now. He doesn’t really care, beyond being glad to be away from that crime scene. He doesn’t really know anything except that Sherlock still hasn’t removed his hand from under John’s shirt, and he’s grateful for it in so many ways. Sherlock’s presence keeps the wolves at bay, he grounds John, he’s the only reason John was able to find his center again, able to pull himself back to reality. He doesn’t remember Sherlock dragging him from the crime scene, he doesn’t even remember Sherlock catching up to him when he started--well, running away. He thinks about the fact that they’re embraced here in the dark, in an alley, in a doorway, apparently right next to a skip (the smell, again). “The entirety of Scotland Yard thinks you’ve just dragged me off for a quick shag in an alley, don’t they?”

“Possibly. Well, Lestrade probably doesn’t.”

“We should go back, we can’t just--” John’s voice breaks, at the end. He cannot even say it, let alone finish the thought in his head, and he starts to shake again, a fine tremor coursing through him at the mere thought of going back there. His fingers scrabble against Sherlock’s back again, seeking an anchor in reality, and Sherlock tightens his grasp on him in reassurance.

“We don’t have to, I got all I need. Lestrade will have cleared the scene,” Sherlock assures him, nearly tripping over the words in his haste to say them, and John sags against him as the relief washes through him.

It is tangible between them, the relief: smooth and cool, soothing along his frayed and scraped raw nerves; he can nearly taste it on his tongue. Sherlock rubs small circles in John’s back, under his shirt. John lets go again, strokes his hands slowly up and down Sherlock’s back, leaning into him mentally and physically, trying to let go, trying to forget how that felt. He hasn’t even lifted his head to look at Sherlock yet; he probably looks like a wreck. He certainly feels like a wreck. It had been unexpected, how hard it had hit him, how quickly the gorge had risen in his throat, the terror, the pain of that crime scene.

“I wish I could delete things the way you do, sometimes.”

“I know.” Sherlock is solid and warm against him, a steadfast presence that John is infinitely grateful for. His mind is blissfully blank right now; he feels as though Sherlock is oozing into him, filling all his cracks with honey, encompassing all of his senses, keeping the riot of emotions from the crime scene from creeping back in and sucking him back under. John can’t even feel the normal prickliness of Sherlock’s own emotions under that, and it’s strangely comforting, the way Sherlock is subsuming himself right this second.

It won’t last though, and John is equally grateful for that. He really wouldn’t want Sherlock any other way, and he’s used to the prickliness; he finds that comforting as well in its familiarity.

John sighs. “We should go before we get arrested for public indecency.” Slowly, he straightens, his hands slipping around to Sherlock’s waist before he finally lets go, standing on his own. He’s vaguely surprised that he’s able to do that. Sherlock’s hand slips from his back, though he retains his grip on John’s neck.

“Are you all right?” His gaze, when John meets his eyes, is piercing.

John shakes his head. “No.”

Sherlock nods. He doesn’t let go. John anchors himself around the feel of five fingers tight on the back of his neck.

“Can we go home?”

Sherlock nods again, finally relinquishes that last bit of physical contact with John. For now. He doesn’t stride off without John but walks beside him, out of the alley and quickly into the back of a taxi; it arrives just as he throws his arm out, as if summoned by magic.

John has to force himself to speak again, when they’re near home. “I know you probably won’t sleep tonight,” he starts. “With the case and all.”

Sherlock makes a humming noise that could really mean anything but in this case is probably agreement.

“But would you-- I don’t--”

Sherlock looks over at him, and then scoots across the seat, heedless of the raised eyebrows of the cabbie, so that they’re pressed together. “Yes, I can just as easily think in bed as in the lounge.”

John feels himself smile, just a bit. He nods at Sherlock. The rest of the drive is silent.


End file.
